Red Letters, White Paper, Black Ink: Race, Writing, Colors, and Characters in 1850S America
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Red Letters, White Paper, Black Ink: Race, Writing, Colors, and Characters in 1850s America Samuel Arrowsmith Turner Portland, Maine B.A., Vassar College, 1997 A Dissertation presented to the Graduate Faculty of the University of Virginia in Candidacy for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy Department of English University of Virginia August, 2013 ii Abstract It’s well known that both the idea of race and the idea of writing acquired new kinds of importance for Americans in the mid-nineteenth century. Less obvious has been the extent to which the relationship between the two ideas, each charged by antebellum America with an ever-broader range of ideological functions, has itself served for some authors both as an object of inquiry and as a politico-aesthetic vocabulary. “White Paper, Black Ink, Red Letters” concerns this race-writing dialectic, and takes as its point of departure the fact that both writing and race depend on a priori notions of visibility and materiality to which each nonetheless is – or seems to be – irreducible. That is, though any given utterance of racial embodiment or alphabetic inscription becomes intelligible by its materialization as part of a field of necessarily visible signifiers (whether shapes of letters or racially encoded features of the body) the power of any such signifier to organize or regulate experience depends on its perceived connection to a separate domain of invisible meanings. iii For many nineteenth-century Americans race offered an increasingly persuasive narrative of identity at a time when the self-evidence of class, gender, and nationality as modes of affiliation seemed to be waning. At the same time, the country’s rapid geographical and industrial expansion (as well as, for some, its newly self-conscious literary nationalism) helped to keep alphabetic inscription the privileged technology of subjective and intersubjective identification; this was a moment when the centrality of face-to-face communication was already clearly waning in the face of industrialization and urbanization, but when neither audio telephony nor sound recording made it possible for the voice to go where the body was not except as writing. In examining the relation between these two interpellative poles my project seeks to shed new light on the structures of feeling and meaning that arise in a republic of letters which regards itself as – like the printed page – dependent for its coherence on strictly regulated relations of black to white, and which also regards the racial body as always already not just a political problem but a textual one. Given the necessary intersection of the printed book and the literary text, it’s a bit remarkable that literary criticism and bibliography have, for most of their respective histories, been carried out as two separate lines of inquiry. There’s no reason, though, that the dependence of the literary on the bibliographic shouldn’t play some part in every critical endeavor; and inasmuch as bibliographic description draws the abstract aims of verbal artistry into the orbit of such lived, material practices as labor, production, and trade, a vigorous discussion of inscriptive technologies as such would seem not just compatible with but ideally suited to the demands of literary studies at a moment in the discipline’s history when its ongoing inquiry into the intertwining histories of identity and power is both as necessary and as contested as it has been at any other time. I present the relationship iv between racial and alphabetic semiotics in the American nineteenth century – the capacity of each, when discussed explicitly, to register ideas about both – as one tool a bibliographic- historicist project might use to generate new and useful interpretations of widely-read, long- familiar works like The Scarlet Letter. But while bibliographic and editorial concerns have helped to shape my understanding of what a text is, my project’s understanding of what it is to interpret such a text owes its greatest debt to foundational work in the study of sexuality – that of figures like Michel Foucault, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, and Judith Butler – all of whom offer tools by which the body’s materiality can be discussed as a political utterance. Butler in particular helps us to see how what we think of as the material world must emerge, just as do books, within the context of some representational order, and how this order must in turn be governed by normative canons of grammar which shape intersubjective relations of domination and subordination; that which can be seen and read, whether body or paper, must always communicate content, but also refer back citationally to the code under which that content emerges as intelligible. I deploy these interpretive strategies, however, as a contribution less to queer theory than to American Studies, seeking to build upon and forge connections between, on the one hand, recent work on embodied racialization in the United States (works by Sarah E. Chinn, Walter Johnson, Maurice O. Wallace, Paul Gilmore, M. Giulia Fabi, Eve Allegra Raimon, Michael O’Malley, et al.), and, on the other (suggestively, not exhaustively), histories of printing (Warren Chappell), of literary publishing (Michael Winship), and the alphabet (Jill Lepore, Patricia Crain). My work thus seeks to contribute to ongoing discussions of race and print culture in American Studies while at the same time making a case that the study of the American nineteenth century is particularly well situated right now to unravel certain methodological knots of concern to the discipline of literary v criticism more generally, such as the relationship between text and book, and the relationship between formalist and historicist methodologies. Both my first and second chapters concern Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter – the first considering the novel’s genesis and its unusually elaborate paratext, and the second considering the novel as such. The first chapter discusses the lengths to which Hawthorne went in order to script in advance the novel’s encounter with its readership – lengths that include arranging for the title to be printed on the title page in red ink, and even setting the opening of the novel on the same city block where a Boston reader would have purchased the book itself. The color on the title page – which Hawthorne describes in his letters explicitly as a commercial strategy – is, I argue, central to the novel’s meaning, since it calls attention to the visual nature of reading words in ways that books normally don’t. Color thus functions on the title page both as a way to attract consumer interest and as a defamiliarization of the act of reading. And once this title page has generated this alphabetic gaze, the novel’s plot then presents the human body – Hester Prynne’s body – as that gaze’s paradigmatic object. Indeed, the central conceit of The Scarlet Letter is – in spite of the marginal role race has usually been supposed to have in the novel – one that seems scarcely imaginable except as a consequence of racial epistemology: that to look at a person is also to read a text. In this synthesis of alphabet and body the conceit reimagines the semiotics of race (in which Hawthorne assumes the public is interested) so that they resemble those of his literary project as an author (which he fears it will ignore). The project’s third and fourth chapters concern the work of William Wells Brown, which reverse the paradigm I explore in my discussion of Hawthorne, suggesting that a seriously-minded anatomy of racial meaning could best be produced in the antebellum vi United States by way of a simultaneous anatomy of printing as a material practice. Brown’s writing interrogates the epistemological underpinnings on which racism and slavery depend by placing those underpinnings in three overlapping contexts: the semiotics of the alphabet, those of the physiognomic body, and those of money. Brown’s abiding concern with money allows my project to map the relations among the alphabet, the marketplace, and the racial body, which I introduce in my reading of The Scarlet Letter, more explicitly as part of an emerging market economy. In presenting the idea of printing as central to the idea of race, Brown produces a startlingly subversive, pragmatic, and thoroughly antisentimental argument against the institution of slavery, one which suggests that if racial embodiment reproduces the logic of textual inscription then the commodification of the slave body reproduces the logic of paper money. Slavery would thus, even were it not a moral outrage, portend a crisis of value that Brown believes every moneyed American will see the wisdom of avoiding, however unmoved by slaves’ suffering he or she may be. A coda to the project concerns Edward Prime-Stevenson’s 1906 Imre: A Memorandum, and serves as a conclusion. Only now beginning to be read, Imre is a defiant celebration of love between men, a book as avowedly anti-commercial and anti-democratic as it is anti-homophobic. Set in Hungary and self-published in a run of just five-hundred copies under the pseudonym Xavier Mayne, the novella is informed in equal measures by, on the one hand, the languages of continental sexology and racial science, and, on the other, by the New Jersey-born Prime-Stevenson’s flamboyantly aristocratic pretentions and outspoken, vaguely right-wing Magyarphilia. The coda suggests how the political and inscriptive energies I locate in the 1840s and 1850s changed to accommodate the new discourses of sexual orientation that emerged